


After Everyone Else

by dance_across



Series: Red, Yellow, Green [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Biting, Blow Jobs, Chris Is Up For It Literally All The Time, Clubbing, Come Sharing, Crying, Dom Katsuki Yuuri, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, Kink Discovery, M/M, Nipple Play, Open Relationships, POV Victor, Past Christophe Giacometti/Victor Nikiforov, Polyamory Negotiations (implied), Post-Canon, Safewords, Sexual Fantasy, Threesome - M/M/M, Victor Has A Lot Of Feelings And No Idea What To Do With Them, Victor Is Into Other People Being Into Yuuri, Victor's Foot Thing, Voyeurism, Yuuri Wins The Best Husband Award, consent kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-04 16:27:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10283090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dance_across/pseuds/dance_across
Summary: Victor doesn’t want to intrude on the scene. He wants to observe. He wants, now that he thinks about it, to see how far they’ll go. He wants to watch Yuuri rendered incoherent with pleasure at Chris’s touch. He wants to see Yuuri admired and treasured and adored—and he wants to be, after all that, the person that Yuuri chooses in the end.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ineptshieldmaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineptshieldmaid/gifts).



> A billion thanks to [airspaniel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel) for the very insightful beta, and for being the awesomest of humans.
> 
> This fic is for ineptshieldmaid, whose [Bright, Ridiculous Things](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9923405) gave me the "Victor Being Into Other People Being Into Yuuri" idea in the first place -- and also for anyone who likes fics where Chris retires and then has a threesome with Victor and Yuuri. Which is accidentally my favorite subgenre in this fandom because, uh. Reasons?
> 
> Honestly, this was supposed to be like 3,000 words of fluffy threesome sex. But then it grew feelings and angst, and I had to soothe the angst with fluff and schmoop at the end, and here we are.
> 
> AGAIN.

They’ve lost Chris again. Not that Victor is worried or anything; it’s just instinct, keeping an eye on the two people he came here with.

Yuuri is far easier to keep track of, seeing as he hasn’t left Victor’s side since they arrived. First because he was nervous—but now that it’s two hours later and they’ve settled into the vibe, the rhythm, the thumping bass that underscores everything, _now_ it’s because Yuuri can’t keep his hands off Victor.

Which is absolutely fine, as far as Victor is concerned.

Chris loaned Yuuri a shirt for the occasion: a slippery midnight-blue thing with a V-neck that drops practically to Yuuri’s waist. Rather than looking garish, as Victor first suspected it might, it actually makes Yuuri look… elegant. By this place’s standards, anyway. Paired with the darkly glistening shadow at his eyes and the wintry gloss on his lips, the shirt makes Yuuri look like some sort of demon prince.

Victor isn’t stupid, though, nor is he humble; he knows that Yuuri is only half the reason that everyone on the dance floor keeps sneaking glances at them, if not openly staring at them, as they dance together. If Yuuri is a demon prince, then Victor is a faerie king: clad head to toe in white and grey, with silver at his belt, silver above his eyes, silver on his lips. The only hint of darkness he wears is the black leather choker at his throat.

That part was Yuuri’s idea.

With Yuuri’s hands on his hips, Victor _moves_ , chasing the club’s rhythm with his whole being. He is undulating and spinning; he is a tornado, a hurricane, an earthquake made human; he is lightning; he is _light_.

He is also _incredibly_ tired.

The DJ slides from one song into the next, and Victor slows, ready to suggest that he and Yuuri take a break. They can go back to their VIP booth, have a glass or two of champagne, and catch their breath. But then Yuuri shouts, “Oh! I love this song!” And off they go again, Victor rallying as he always does in the face of Yuuri’s preternatural stamina.

Chris finds them again soon enough. His hair is even more mussed than usual, and his lips look swollen. Kissing or a blowjob? Victor honestly can’t tell which.

“Miss me?” Chris has to shout to be heard over the music; he grinds up against Victor’s leg as he asks.

“Always!” Victor replies, laughing as he and Yuuri open up to invite Chris into their space.

Where Victor and Yuuri aimed for fey elegance, Chris went in the opposite direction; his self-described clubbing look is _glam trash, extra queer_. His pants are pleather and skin-tight; his mesh muscle shirt exposes more than it hides—including the bright gold nipple rings that he bought himself as a retirement present. He is wearing bubblegum-pink lipstick and far too much glitter. He is ridiculous and over-the-top and beautiful, and he dances like an absolute dream.

In fact…

“You two keep each other company for a while, yeah?” Victor says. Shouts, rather. “I need a drink.”

Yuuri must be high on adrenaline or something, because he doesn’t even _hesitate_ before reaching out and hooking a finger under the choker Victor is wearing. Victor’s breath catches as Yuuri tugs him close, their bodies flush together and moving in tandem for eight, nine, ten more beats as Yuuri draws a kiss out of him.

“Don’t be long,” Yuuri says right into his ear, and then lets him go. As he turns to Chris and beckons him closer—an invitation to which Chris _eagerly_ responds—Victor catches a hint of silver clinging to Yuuri’s darkened lips.

With two fingers skirting over the choker—his own, this time—Victor weaves his way off the floor and back toward their booth. It’s quieter here, though not by much. And there is, as he was hoping, a new bottle of champagne waiting, opened, iced. He pours himself a glass, settles into the plush booth, and exhales.

The booths on either side of him are full of people. To his right, a group of young women in short skirts are laughing and drinking and toasting. Bachelorette party, if Victor had to guess. To his left, a pair of men in very nice suits have surrounded themselves with yet more young women in short skirts. Some of the women look very happy. Some of them look bored. One of them keeps glancing over at Victor; he can’t tell if she knows who he is. Maybe she’s just wondering.

He raises his champagne flute to her, gives her one of his best camera-ready smiles, and sips. She smiles back before he looks away.

In front of him, the dance floor is a seething mass of bodies. Bathed in strobe lights and pulsing with the bassline, they mingle and swarm. Graceless but enthusiastic. Impatient and horny. More glitz than substance.

But then, he spots Chris and Yuuri.

If Yuuri looked good up close, he looks _dazzling_ from a distance, rolling his hips, letting his body follow, unfurling his hands above his head. The movement of his wrists alone is a work of art—but then there’s the line of his throat as he tips his head back. The curve of his ass as he drops low to come at Chris from below. Everything else, too.

Chris, meanwhile, gives as good as he’s getting. He’s an anchor for Yuuri, his legs and torso pressed close whenever he can, his hands tracing the lines of Yuuri’s body as he moves, emphasizing him to anyone who might be watching.

And, oh, Victor is definitely watching.

In fact, he’s downright disappointed when, only ten short minutes later, Chris and Yuuri chase each other off the dance floor. They’re laughing, the two of them, and as they approach the table, Yuuri stops them so he can lean over and swipe something off Chris’s nose. Chris laughs, and Yuuri glides away again. Away from Chris, toward Victor.

Yuuri’s face gleams with sweat as he slides into the booth beside Victor. Bright-eyed and breathing hard, he wastes no time in cupping a hand around the back of Victor’s head and bringing him forward to claim a kiss. It’s hot and wet and sloppy; Victor _likes_ how Yuuri kisses when he’s worked up.

But then, Yuuri breaks away with a yelp. Eyes flying open with alarm, Victor sees Chris leering at them. Chris, who has crept into the booth on Yuuri’s other side, and wrapped himself around Yuuri like a starfish. One of his hands has come to rest on Yuuri’s thigh, and the other is stroking the side of his neck. It’s nothing untoward; it was just sudden. Yuuri is wide-eyed.

Chris, catching Victor’s eye over Yuuri’s shoulder, says, “Don’t let me stop you. Carry on with whatever you were doing.”

For a moment, Victor doesn’t know what to do. Is Chris making Yuuri uncomfortable? Is all the married-couple kissing making _Chris_ uncomfortable? Should _Victor_ find a reason to feel uncomfortable?

But before he can tackle any of these questions, he sees it: Chris’s fingers, stroking a feather-light path down Yuuri’s neck… and Yuuri, leaning ever so slightly into the touch as a smile begins to soften his lips.

Something coils in Victor’s belly. Something dark and primal and demanding. _This_ , it seems to say. _Exactly this._

Yuuri blinks lazily at Victor, that loose smile still tugging at his mouth. “Well?” he says.

That’s the only cue Victor needs. All at once, he’s on Yuuri again, hands on his face, claiming his mouth over and over. Yuuri leans in, palm against Victor’s chest, arching up into him—with Chris behind him all the while. Stroking Yuuri’s neck. Massaging Yuuri’s thigh. Supporting Yuuri’s back.

_The two of them, dancing out there together. Yuuri, spinning in Chris’s hands, knowing that Victor would be watching them…_

Victor breaks the kiss. Presses his forehead to Yuuri’s. “I think,” he says breathlessly, “that our friend Christophe might want a kiss, too.”

“Oh—I mean, you’re welcome to—if you want—”

Victor shakes his head. And then he sees understanding dawn on Yuuri’s face.

Behind Yuuri, Chris still lingers. Too far away to hear their conversation over the music. Too close to ignore.

“Me,” Yuuri says. “You want me to go first?”

Victor understands why Yuuri seems confused. It’s far from the first time Victor has suggested that Yuuri kiss someone—but Chris and Victor have a history. If anyone should be inviting Chris into their circle, it should, by all known logic, be Victor.

But. But this feels right, somehow.

Victor nods.

Yuuri hooks a finger under the choker again. He doesn’t pull, this time. He just holds Victor there. Studies him. Then, finally, leans in and whispers right into Victor’s ear: “Don’t take your eyes off me.”

“I wouldn’t,” Victor says.

And then Yuuri twists around in the booth, grabs Chris, and gifts him with a kiss.

It’s short and close-mouthed, more a question than an actual kiss. Chris, for once in his life, looks absolutely stunned. He pulls away and stares at Yuuri… then pulls further away and stares at Victor, a silent question forming in the line between his eyebrows.

Once again, Victor nods.

Chris blinks. Chris _grins_. And Chris takes hold of Yuuri and begins kissing him in earnest.

-

The first time Victor saw Yuuri kiss someone else was in Detroit. Yuuri had only just retired, and was taking Victor on a tour of his old life. His teenage years, his college years. Everything that came before Victor.

Yuuri’s friend Ketty—a Georgian-American woman, the very same Ketty who’d composed the music for the free skate that broke Victor’s world record—was still living in Detroit. Upon learning that Yuuri and his fiancé were in town, she’d invited them to a party. Nothing fancy; just a gathering of friends at someone’s house. There was a keg; there were bottles of bottom-shelf liquor; there were red plastic cups. There was a swimming pool outside and a makeshift dance floor in the basement. There was karaoke.

And there was Amir.

Dark-skinned and brown-eyed, Amir was the man that Victor would forever remember as having once said to Yuuri, “Your ass is the best. Sorry if that’s a weird thing to say, but it is literally the best ass I have ever seen. In my life.”

There was more conversation than just that, of course. But that’s the part Victor remembers. Partly because it was indisputably true—but mostly because Yuuri’s drunken response was to turn to Victor, beaming, and say, “Did you hear that? I have the best ass! The best one!”

“You certainly do, sweetheart,” Victor replied. It made Yuuri wiggle against him. Which was great. Victor liked it when Yuuri wiggled.

Turning back to Amir, Yuuri said, “And you. You have the best… I mean, your _mouth_. I just want to _kiss_ it.”

Victor reached for Yuuri’s hand, then, and squeezed. It was permission, primarily, but it was something else, too. It was support. A request for inclusion, maybe. It was _I’m here for you_ and _I’m here with you_. All of those things together, and maybe more.

Amir really did have an attractive mouth. Full lips, blush-pink. It was a mouth that smiled easily—and, as it turned out, a mouth that kissed Yuuri almost exactly the way Yuuri liked being kissed.

Victor watched, enraptured. He’d never seen this from the outside before. Yuuri, kissing. Yuuri, molding his mouth against someone else’s, letting his body follow. Victor had felt it, of course. Countless times. Feeling it was second nature by then, as familiar and exquisite as sliding into the onsen after a long flight. But _seeing_ it….

When they broke apart, Yuuri took a moment to touch the palm of his free hand to Amir’s cheek. “You’re lovely,” he whispered.

“Well, _shit_ ,” Amir whispered back.

Victor laughed; this was exactly the reaction a person ought to have after being kissed by Yuuri.

Then, Amir looked at Victor. “You too?” he asked, one part wary and two parts hopeful.

“You can if you want,” Yuuri murmured into Victor’s ear. “He’s very good.”

So Victor did, because, well, why not? He kissed Amir lightly and playfully, and Amir _was_ good. Responsive and receptive and sweet. But Victor still spent the entire time thinking quietly to himself, _You aren’t Yuuri. You aren’t my Yuuri._

-

The splay of Chris’s hand on Yuuri’s back. Victor can’t look away from it. This is the hand that was on Yuuri’s neck just a few minutes ago, and it’s been drifting down, down, down ever since. Right now, it rests against Yuuri’s ribcage, just above his waist—and while Yuuri hasn’t moved to accommodate it, Victor can _feel_ him reacting to its presence. Sighing into the touch. Encouraging more.

Chris’s hand slides lower, brushing Yuuri’s waist, curving over Yuuri’s hip. His fingers claw inward, ever so slightly, grasping at the thick muscle of Yuuri’s ass. This time, Victor doesn’t just feel Yuuri’s reaction—he can hear it, too. A tiny groan, threading through the music somehow and wending its way into Victor’s ears. His heart thunders in his chest, joyful at the pleasure evident in every line of Yuuri’s body. He’s been where Chris is. He knows how wonderful it feels to have Yuuri pliant under his hands.

But that’s not all of it, because—well, because he’s been where Yuuri is, too.

He knows how Chris’s fingers feel when they dig and grasp; he knows how Chris kisses. He knows every inch of this scene far too well, and his body thrums with the echo of Yuuri’s mouth, from five minutes ago, and the echo of Chris’s, from five years ago. His entire body is enveloped with the ghosts of sensations past, and his every nerve ending is on fire even though, right now, he isn’t being touched by anyone at all.

The world narrows. There is only Chris and the way he touches, Yuuri and the way he moves, and Victor, watching.

Except—

“What does a lady have to do to get a piece of _this_ action?”

Victor startles. Looks up, toward the source of the voice. It’s the woman from the booth on the left, the one Victor smiled at before; she’s standing over them with a glass of red wine in her hand.

Chris and Yuuri come apart. Slowly, still leaning toward each other, they look up at the newcomer.

“Well, hello there, beautiful,” Chris says—which is when Victor realizes that he hasn’t spoken at all. He’s been sitting there, staring at her like a silent idiot, even though he was the one who wasn’t… preoccupied.

The woman’s eyes linger on Victor for a second longer, before flicking over to Chris. She holds up her wine glass, inclines her head, and says, “Celeste.”

“Christophe,” replies Chris, and stands up.

Victor moves to follow—it seems the right thing to do—but a hand on his shoulder stills him. Victor looks. There’s Yuuri, inches away, looking thoroughly kissed, buoyantly happy, and oddly worried.

Chris and Celeste exchange a few more words, but Victor doesn’t hear them. All he can hear is Yuuri’s voice, low in his ear: “Are you all right?”

Victor stares. Of course he’s all right. Why wouldn’t he be? His whole body is singing with the rightness of Yuuri being there with him, and with the rightness of everything that led to it.

“You’re mine,” Victor whispers, though he isn’t really sure why. He leans in to kiss Yuuri’s cheek and says, again, “Mine.” Forehead. Nose. Lips. “All mine.”

“Of course I am.” Yuuri’s gaze grows sharp; he eases away, just a little. “Did you not like that? It’s okay if you didn’t.”

Victor absolutely cannot fathom why Yuuri feels the need to ask—but then Yuuri reaches out to brush Victor’s cheek, just under his eye. His fingers come away wet.

Victor swipes at his eyes, absolutely mortified. There’s no reason for him to be crying. None at all. They’re in _public_. And he _liked_ what he just saw. For heaven’s sake.

Above them, Chris and Celeste have already started kissing, and they both look like they’re enjoying it thoroughly. It’s far less interesting than watching Chris kiss Yuuri, since she’s a stranger, but Victor is still happy for him. And for her.

“All right, we won’t do that again,” Yuuri says, taking both of Victor’s hands and squeezing them. “It’s okay. Not everything we try is going to work out. It’s fine. Chris will understand, right?”

“No, it’s not that, it’s…”

Victor cuts himself off, looking down at their joined hands, then up at Chris again. He’s just ended the kiss with Celeste, and now she’s gesturing at the dance floor. He’s laughing, nodding. And then he tosses a quick “I’ll be back!” at Victor and Yuuri, and he’s off again, lost quickly in the pulsing mass of bodies.

Yuuri joins Victor in watching them go—and then he turns to watch Victor instead, his eyes searching, seeking, puzzling. Finally, he asks, “Did you want to join us? Because we can do that, if Chris is up for it.”

 _Too many questions_ , thinks Victor, and shakes his head.

“No?” Yuuri says, brow furrowing. “Victor, you have to tell me. I won’t know what you’re thinking unless you tell me.”

Ah, but that would require, first, thinking at all. He can’t think right now. He can’t. He is a pile of nerve endings, a bonfire whose white-hot center is his hands, where Yuuri is touching him. Translating feeling into thinking is a thing that he has been learning how to do, but it requires time, at least. And possibly a cold shower.

But somehow, he manages to squeeze out the crux of the thing that Yuuri is getting wrong: “It was good,” he says. “You were _perfect_.”

Yuuri looks confused. Which is fair.

So Victor explains the only way he can: by moving their joined hands up his thigh, so Yuuri can feel him through his ash-grey pants. Victor is rock-hard.

Slowly, Yuuri nods. He asks, “From watching?”

It’s more than that. It’s not _just_ the watching. It’s the fact of it being Chris, the fact of Victor himself being so close but completely removed. It’s the fact of Yuuri ending up back here, afterwards. Back here, with him, wearing that worried look and letting his hands rest in Victor’s lap.

But for now, he just nods. And it’s a truth, even if only a partial one.

“Is this something we should talk about?” Yuuri asks, and he’s so, so gentle. Gentle enough that it almost rankles. Victor dislikes being treated like a delicate being—even when he knows he’s acting like one.

He licks his lips. Swallows. The other problem is that, no, he really _doesn’t_ want to talk about this. He’s had six or seven glasses of champagne, and his body is still coursing with dance-floor adrenaline. Maybe he can blame those things for his suggestion that Yuuri kiss Chris. Stupid of him.

“Vitya,” says Yuuri softly, one index finger finding the leather choker again. Still not pulling. Still just holding Victor firmly in place. “Is it?”

“Maybe,” Victor says, finally. Then, despite himself: “Yeah. I think so. Yeah.”

-

The last skate of Yuuri’s competitive career was marked by thunderous applause, so many gifts that the flower girls had to make two rounds around the rink, and Victor, crying his eyes out as Yuuri skated off the ice and into his arms.

He regretted this last part later. Not because it made his eyes look puffy, nor because of the spate of articles speculating that he was dying. Not even because of that one Tumblr post about his tears being an elixir that gave everlasting life, and _quick_ , everyone, let’s make Victor cry again so we can bottle them up!

No, the reason he regretted it was because it resulted in more coverage for Victor than for Yuuri. Two “Fiancé’s final skate brings Russia’s living legend Victor Nikiforov to tears” articles for every “Katsuki dazzles in final competitive skate, ends career with gold medal” article. Ridiculous.

“You were beautiful,” Victor whispered into Yuuri’s neck, clinging to him as they waited for what would be yet another record-breaking score. “Stunning. Perfect.”

“You’re going to choke me to death,” Yuuri teased.

So Victor loosened his hold, just enough to pull back and kiss Yuuri properly. He was dimly aware of the swell of cheering that followed, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Yuuri was here, in his arms, his body shaking with giddy laughter as he kissed Victor back, and Victor was determined to milk the moment for all it was worth, because it would never happen like this again.

Well, no. The moment itself, the actual kissing? That would happen over and over, as often as possible, until the end of time. Victor would make sure of that. But the _arrival_ at the moment? Yuuri giving his all, basking in the adoration of the crowd, and then coming back to Victor afterwards?

Yuuri already had three ice shows booked before the actual date of his retirement. There’d be moments like this one after those, Victor supposed. But they wouldn’t be the same.

Nothing would ever be quite the same.

So Victor kept kissing, kept basking, for as long as Yuuri let him. This, too, would end up being the subject of a number of articles, not to mention a viral video that would eventually become something of a meme: that time Katsuki Yuuri didn’t bother acknowledging his free skate score until a full ten seconds after the fact, because he was too busy sucking face with his coach.

-

“I think I know what it is,” Victor says. “Part of it, anyway.”

Yuuri tilts his head to the side, patient, waiting. They’re outside now, nestled against the exterior wall of the club. A slight breeze cuts through the summer air, and Victor’s ears are full of high heels clattering past, snippets of French, drunken Saturday night laughter. Paris has always been one of his favorite cities; having Yuuri here only makes it better.

“I like the part where you come back to me,” Victor explains. “I like… I like being the thing that’s waiting for you after everyone else has left.”

“The _thing_ ,” Yuuri murmurs. It doesn’t sound like a judgment. More like he’s committing Victor’s choice of word to memory.

“I like being…”

Victor trails off, licking his lips, thinking of every single time Yuuri skated for the eyes of the whole world, and then, when it was all over, skated right into Victor’s arms. And every single time Yuuri kissed someone at a party, or at a club, or at a bar, and then went home with Victor at the end of the night.

“I like being your reward,” he says.

Yuuri smiles, the sudden shyness of it standing in stark contrast with the boldness of his clothes and makeup. “My reward,” he echoes with a laugh. “For what?”

The parties, the clubs, the bars. The way Victor would spot someone eyeing Yuuri; the way Yuuri’s cheeks would glow when Victor pointed it out. The way Yuuri squared his shoulders and lifted his chin when the person in question inevitably approached. The way he eventually started saying _yes_ without first saying _why_.

“For letting yourself be loved,” Victor says, and reaches out to touch Yuuri’s collarbone. Then his jaw. Yuuri shivers in the warm summer air; Victor can feel him leaning into the touch. “For letting yourself feel wanted.”

“I always feel wanted,” Yuuri murmurs, catching Victor’s hand and pressing a quick kiss to his fingers. “It’s hard not to, with you around.”

Victor smiles. He enjoys hearing, from time to time, that he’s doing his job right.

“Likewise,” he tells Yuuri. “But do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I think I do,” Yuuri says seriously. “But it was different tonight. For you, I mean.” A hand on Victor’s face. Yuuri steps closer. “Do you know why?”

Victor thinks. They’ve been doing this thing, this kissing-other-people thing, for months now. Maybe over a year. It’s not often, but it’s often enough that they’ve talked about it. Set boundaries, made rules. Such as: kissing is always allowed, but permission must be sought for anything more than that. Such as: if it’s someone they know, they have to check in about it first. Such as: if one of them says _stop_ , that’s the end of it.

None of these rules have ever been a problem. They still aren’t, as far as Victor is concerned. But Yuuri is right. Tonight was different. Maybe it’s because of Chris. Victor never _dated_ Chris, per se, but their aggressively casual friends-with-benefits relationship lasted a long, long time. It started when Victor was still a teenager, and only fizzled out when Yuuri entered Victor’s life, blackout drunk and half naked and dancing like the world was about to end.

Maybe, too, it’s because tonight marks the first time Victor has ever turned down the opportunity to participate. Usually, when Yuuri decides to kiss someone, Victor joins in. And vice versa, though that happens far more rarely. Not tonight, though. And it isn’t because Victor has sworn off kissing Chris; he’d probably enjoy kissing Chris again sometime.

But, in a specific sense, he doesn’t want to do it like _that_. He doesn’t want to intrude on the scene. He wants to observe. He wants, now that he thinks about it, to see how far they’ll go. He wants to watch Yuuri rendered incoherent with pleasure at Chris’s touch. He wants to see Yuuri admired and treasured and adored—and he wants to be, after all that, the person that Yuuri chooses in the end.

Victor did not know, until this moment, that he wanted all of those things.

“You’re blushing,” Yuuri says, rounding his hand to cup Victor’s cheek. “Tell me?”

“It’s…” Victor swallows. “It’s a lot. You wouldn’t like it, I think, if I actually asked you to…”

“Ask me anyway,” Yuuri says, his thumb moving over Victor’s cheek. “If I don’t like it, I’ll say no. Easy.”

Victor’s stomach is roiling. He shouldn’t feel this nervous. There’s no reason to. Yuuri loves him no matter what—and it isn’t as though they’ve never acted out each other’s fantasies before. This one, though. This one feels too new. Too raw. Unfinished and rough around the edges. Victor hasn’t had time to explore its boundaries yet. He might get it wrong.

Yuuri is willing to hear him out, though, and Chris is leaving for Prague tomorrow. It’s now or never.

“I just don’t want you to think I’m, I don’t know… trying to give you away,” Victor says. The words sound far stupider out loud than they did inside his head, and he slumps against the wall, trying not to be too embarrassed.

But Yuuri’s eyes darken at the implication. At the promise of the question to come. His shyness seems to melt away, and he says, “Ask me, love. I think it’s very likely that I’ll say yes.”

So Victor asks.

-

“Never? Really?” Victor was honestly surprised. Honestly. “Five years living together, and not even a _kiss_?”

“Two years,” Yuuri corrected.

Victor shot him a perplexed look. He knew Yuuri spent five years completing his undergraduate degree in Detroit. Everyone knew this.

“I’m younger, remember?” Phichit added. “We only overlapped for two years.”

“Still,” Victor said. “Not once. Wow.”

Phichit shrugged. “I mean, Yuuri was kind of preoccupied. And in case the subtext of _that_ isn’t clear, I mean preoccupied with _you_.”

Yuuri rolled his eyes—but he still looked awfully pleased when Victor responded by slinging an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders, hugging him close.

“Well, you weren’t interested either,” Yuuri shot back. “You had a new boyfriend every three days or so.”

“Heyyy,” said Phichit. “Don’t underplay it. There were girlfriends too. And friends of non-binary gender identity.”

“My point,” Yuuri said firmly, “still stands.”

“So does mine,” said Phichit. “You weren’t interested in me. Despite my best efforts.”

“Best efforts?” Victor said, perking up considerably. This was saying a lot, incidentally, as it was very difficult to perk up in Bangkok, where it was insufferably warm and unbearably humid _literally all the time_.

Yuuri, meanwhile, just looked skeptical. And confused.

“Yuuri, come on,” Phichit said with a laugh. “I spent a solid month trying to ask you out. Remember? And then I finally asked why you kept saying no, and you wouldn’t talk to me for a week? And, I mean, then I said I was sorry and we never talked about it again and somehow you let me be your best friend anyway and I kicked your old roommate out and moved in, but… but come on, you _have_ to remember that.”

Yuuri blinked. “That was… but… but weren’t you joking?”

“ _Joking_?”

“Yeah, you know. ‘Hey look, there’s the socially awkward foreign kid with the crippling anxiety and the funny accent! Let’s make him _talk to strangers_!’ You know. Joking. Like all the Americans did. Not that I held it against you, I mean, you did apologize, but—”

“Oh, Yuuri,” Victor groaned. Because he understood exactly what was happening, even if Yuuri wasn’t quite there yet. He’d known, for nearly as long as he’d known Yuuri himself, about Yuuri’s tendency to think himself unworthy. But this would be the first time that Victor heard it put into words by someone other than Victor himself.

“I asked you out because I thought you were _hot_. So did whatever Americans you’re talking about, probably.” Phichit shook his head and added, “Not probably. Definitely.”

“Oh, no,” Yuuri murmured.

Victor kissed the side of his face. “Oh, yes.”

Phichit gave Victor a deadpan look. “One day. One day, this boy will understand that every single human with a pulse is attracted to him. _One day_.”

“Challenge accepted,” said Victor.

“Oh, _no_ ,” said Yuuri.

-

Victor is in a taxi and nearly back at the hotel when Yuuri’s text finally arrives. Three texts, actually. Right in a row.

First: _A resounding yes from Chris! Yesssssssssss!_

Second: _We’ll meet you at the hotel in 20 mins. We’re using green-yellow-red. Text me if you change your mind._

And then, third: _I love you. I love you. I love you._

Victor’s heart swells. His pulse is pounding. He tips the taxi driver something like two hundred percent. And he goes up to the room he’s sharing with Yuuri—which is when the first text from Chris arrives:

_See you soon, Victorrrrrr._

Victor replies with a kissy-face emoji, and then, a few moments later, _Thank you._

Chris: _Yuuri told me his version, but I wanna hear from you too. What’s my role?_

Victor considers. He considers what he told Yuuri, and how Yuuri might have translated it for Chris when he extended the invitation. He considers, specifically, the likelihood of Yuuri downplaying the importance of his own pleasure.

Victor replies: _I want Y to feel like the most gorgeous person who ever walked the earth._

Chris, almost immediately: _Well, that shouldn’t be hard. He’s at least in the top 10._

Victor smiles at his phone. This is good. Communication is good. He’s glad that Chris asked. He’s glad Chris knows, now, what the real purpose of this scene is.

Ten minutes to go.

Showering is priority one, since he’s so sweaty that his too-white outfit has started to stick to him. He dries his hair. He considers what to wear. What _does_ a person wear when he’s about to watch his husband hook up with another man? What’s the protocol for this? What is he supposed to _do_?

He knows what he’s supposed to do during the event itself, of course. He’s the one who spelled that part out in the first place. He’s going sit in the desk chair, close enough to the bed to see but too far to touch, and he’s going to watch. Nothing more.

Yuuri, meanwhile, will take whatever pleasure Chris is willing to give him. They can explore each other’s bodies as they see fit, with one exception: they aren’t allowed to fuck. Victor isn’t sure he’s willing to see Yuuri so intimately joined with anyone who isn’t him. Anything else, though? Anything else, unless a safeword is invoked, is fair game.

By the time they arrive, Yuuri will have talked about all of these rules with Chris and made sure Chris is comfortable with his role. By the time they arrive, Victor will be in his chair. Waiting.

Sweatpants, he decides. Not his practice ones, but the ones he sleeps in. Because they’re looser, and that is a thing Victor will definitely need. Sweatpants and a T-shirt. No underwear.

He gets dressed. He sits. He waits.

And then, right on time… laughter in the hallway. The mechanical slide of the keycard unlocking the door. Yuuri’s voice: “Come on, you can wait five more seconds!”

The door clicks shut behind them, and into the room comes Yuuri, with Chris right on his heels. Both of them are costumed and glistening and gorgeous, and before Victor can even say anything, Chris grabs Yuuri, pulls him close, and kisses him. It’s open-mouthed and filthy, and Yuuri melts, absolutely _melts_ , into Chris’s body, arching and writhing as Chris’s hands clutch at his hair, then his back, then his ass.

“You know how many years I’ve spent wanting to get my hands on this ass?” Chris murmurs, just loud enough for Victor to hear. “The greatest ass in professional skating. That’s what I’ve been saying to Victor since day one.”

“Lies,” Yuuri says, blushing furiously.

“Truths,” Victor counters, from his chair. His voice comes out calmer than he expected it to. Good.

Yuuri turns to look at him, absolutely beaming. He breaks out of Chris’s grasp and comes over to him, clutching the chair’s armrests so he can lean down over Victor. He says, “Hello, love.”

“Hi,” Victor replies. Normally, this is where they would kiss. But not tonight. Not yet.

“Everything still good?” Yuuri asks, eyes bright as they study Victor’s face.

Victor nods. “Very.”

Yuuri stands up straight again, backing away, toward Chris. “Good. Because you should probably know that when I asked Chris if he wanted to come home with us, his response was, and I quote—”

“ _It’s about fucking time_ ,” Chris says, in tandem with Yuuri. Then, as Yuuri dissolves into laughter, Chris continues: “Except I never guessed it would be like this. You always struck me as more of an exhibitionist than a voyeur. You’re full of surprises, Nikiforov.”

“That he is.” Yuuri takes hold of Chris’s chin, then, forcing his gaze away from Victor and onto himself. “So am I.”

“I’ll just bet you are,” Chris purrs, as his hands start to roam again. Feeling the muscles of Yuuri’s back through his shirt. Feeling, probably, the million tiny ways that Yuuri responds to this kind of touch. “Has your Vitya told you about us?”

“A little,” Yuuri sighs, pressing a couple of kisses into Chris’s neck as Chris’s hands venture lower. “You slept together. You never dated. You were very good in bed, apparently.”

“I was,” Chris agrees with a smirk. “So was he. I bet he still is.”

“Mmhmm,” Yuuri replies, and his smile is audible when he adds: “Wouldn’t have married him otherwise.”

With a laugh, Chris catches Victor’s eye over Yuuri’s shoulder. “I like him, Victor. Can I keep him? Just for a little while?”

Victor knows that this is Chris’s way of checking in. It’s not necessary, but Victor appreciates it more than he can say.

“Only if I can watch,” Victor replies. “And only if you promise to show him a good time.”

Chris’s smile grows wicked. “You know I will.”

-

Victor didn’t keep in touch very well after he flew to Japan—and it was his own fault, not Chris’s. Chris had texted, asking all the right questions accompanied by all the right emoji, but Victor had kept his answers vague. A little bit because he felt oddly protective of his time at Yu-topia and Ice Castle Hasetsu. But mostly, though, because he didn’t have anything other than vague answers to give.

Yes, he was serious about being a coach. No, he didn’t know if it would last. Yes, he’d been thinking about Yuuri since the goddamned banquet. No, he didn’t buy a plane ticket because of Yuuri’s thighs.

But: _Are you coming back? Are you crazy? Why didn’t you tell anyone before you left?_ He answered these, and more, with smiley faces and hearts and ice skates. Eventually, Chris stopped asking.

And then, Beijing. Yuuri went to bed early after the short programs were finished. Victor did not. That was when Chris finally found him.

“Weird today,” he said, taking the stool next to Victor’s at the hotel bar, “seeing you flitting around in a suit instead of a team jacket.”

“I wasn’t flitting,” Victor countered with a smile. “And you know you liked the suit.”

“It _was_ a flattering suit,” Chris conceded, motioning for the bartender. He ordered vodka for both of them, then added: “And speaking of things that make you look good, your little protégé skated very well today.”

Victor nodded, feeling a rush of pleasure at the compliment. More pleasure, perhaps, than he’d ever felt at compliments on his own skating.

“So? Out with it,” Chris said. “How is he in bed?”

Victor sputtered, and was very glad that he didn’t yet have a drink to spit out.

“Because, you know,” Chris continued thoughtfully, “I always had him figured for a bottom, but after that ‘Eros’ program, my, _my_. That does make a man wonder.”

“It’s… it’s not like that,” Victor managed, somehow.

“Oh?” Then Chris’s eyes widen. “Wait. Wait, you’re _not_ sleeping together?”

 _Not yet_ , Victor wanted to say—but he didn’t want to jinx it. Later, of course, he’d look back on this moment and think himself so stupid, because there was nothing to jinx. Yuuri was already his. It was just a matter of who was going to make the first move.

“I’m his _coach_ ,” Victor said instead.

Chris shrugged. “Well, if you ever decide he needs a little pick-me-up from someone who _isn’t_ his coach, you’ve got my number, and you are _more than welcome_ to pass it along to him.”

“Chris,” Victor said with a little laugh.

“Seriously, I know you’re going for professionalism or whatever, but you’ve at least _noticed_ that ass of his, right?”

Victor groaned. 

“What?”

“Chris, have you ever been to a Japanese hot spring?”

“Uh. No?”

“Well, you should go,” Victor said. “You are not allowed to wear clothes. _Any_ clothes. At _all._ ”

Chris’s eyebrows shot up. “And Yuuri—”

“Yuuri’s family _owns_ one,” Victor said. “He _grew up_ doing this. So, yes. Yes, I have noticed his ass. Specifically and frequently, along with many other parts of him that I have _never touched_ , other than in a purely professional capacity.”

That was when Chris’s eyes narrowed. He looked Victor over, head to toe, and then said, “I changed my mind. Don’t give him my number yet.”

“What?”

“Save it for when you two are happily married and looking for a new toy to add to your sex life.” He grinned, hungry and dirty. “A Christophe-shaped toy.”

Victor rolled his eyes, even as his heart gave a little thrill at the idea. “We’re not getting married.”

“Of course not,” said Chris, and drained the rest of his vodka.

After the free skate, after Victor leapt onto the ice and kissed Yuuri as the whole world watched, and after the scores came in and Yuuri took silver, Chris found Victor and pulled him aside again.

“My offer,” he said, with darkened eyes, “does _not_ expire.”

-

“Lovely Yuuri,” Chris murmurs now, into Yuuri’s skin. “Will you let me undress you?”

Yuuri, already shivering in Chris’s arms after yet another long, grasping kiss, says, “Yeah—no, wait—let me, too, if you’re going to—”

“None of that,” Chris says. “This isn’t about trading off.”

“But,” Yuuri begins.

“But nothing,” says Chris, and draws a gasp out of Yuuri as he presses a kiss into his neck. “Don’t think. Just answer. Will you let me undress you?”

“Y-yes…”

And, oh, Victor _remembers_ this. Chris’s gentle way of taking control. Chris’s attention to detail. He even remembers Chris getting to his knees, just like this, and lifting the hem of his own shirt, just like he’s lifting Yuuri’s now.

Victor feels the ghost of it on his own skin when Chris touches his lips to the flesh just below Yuuri’s shirt. Yuuri’s eyes flick up to meet Victor’s, dark and hungry. Victor gives him a smile, even as he lifts his own shirt to mirror the movement of Chris’s hand, which trails after his mouth along Yuuri’s stomach.

Yuuri shudders and, oh god, Victor was right. This thing, this scene, has barely begun, and it’s already…

Chris unzips Yuuri’s pants and pulls them down, slowly and carefully, running his fingertips along each new inch of exposed skin, starting just below Yuuri’s briefs. “I’ve spent many a sleepless night thinking about these thighs, did you know that?”

Yuuri laughs. “Come on.”

“I did. I’d think about them and I’d become horribly jealous of your husband, getting to feel them whenever he pleased.” Chris looks up at Yuuri; Victor can’t see the expression on his face, but he can imagine. Especially when Chris asks, “Will you let me bite one?”

“I… yes?” Yuuri squeaks. “Yes. Um. Yes.”

Without missing a single beat, Chris bends his neck to the side and sinks his teeth in—right into Victor’s favorite spot. On the side of Yuuri’s leg, just under the curve of his ass. Yuuri _gasps_.

“Too hard?” Chris asks.

Yuuri breathes through his nose. Out, in, out again. He says, “No.”

“Good,” says Chris, and bites again, harder. Yuuri takes his lip between his teeth, letting a ragged, breathy sound escape.

Victor reaches down, just long enough to adjust himself inside his sweatpants. He doesn’t touch, though. There’s no way he’ll last through all this if he touches.

When Yuuri’s pants are pooled at his ankles, Chris guides him out of them, one foot at a time—and for a second, Victor is sure that Chris will kiss Yuuri’s feet. He doesn’t, though, and Victor is surprised to feel relief at the lack of attention paid. That’s something all his own, still. Good.

Chris stands, then, and eases Yuuri out of his shirt—and then takes half a step back, takes half a second to look. “God, yes,” he says, and pulls Yuuri in for a kiss.

The view from Victor’s chair is… _breathtaking_ is the wrong word. It’s too common, too often found in hyperbole. But there isn’t a word better suited, because Victor is, quite literally, finding it difficult to catch his breath. Without a shirt to cover him, Yuuri is still a sight that never fails to stun Victor. The lean muscles that frame his spine, the strength evident in his arms, the slight pudge at his waist. He’s gorgeous and kinetic and _god_ is he ever good at kissing. Seeing it from the outside is an absolute wonder.

Victor is almost surprised to find that his own hand has wandered up to his mouth, fingertips brushing over lips. Every part of him wanting, wanting.

Somehow, Chris manages to shed his own clothes largely without breaking the kiss. And when they are both in only their underwear—plain black briefs for Yuuri, a bright red thong for Chris, which, no surprise there—Chris ends the kiss with a laugh.

“You’re tense,” he tells Yuuri, cupping his face.

Yuuri flicks a glance at Victor before looking back at Chris. “I’m trying not to be.”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” Chris says. “You’re nervous. I’d be nervous too, in your place. This is the first time you’ve invited a third person to bed, isn’t it?”

Victor’s heart is pounding. He feels oddly exposed, hearing Chris talking about it like this. He doesn’t want Chris to stop, it’s just—it’s—

Yuuri nods.

“Thought so,” Chris says. “Well, you should know that I’m honored to be the one you chose—and you should also know that I don’t mind you being nervous. As long as it’s the situation and not me. Okay?”

A year or two ago, Yuuri might have demurred somehow. Called himself stupid for being nervous, maybe, or tried to cover it up. Now, though he just nods again and says, “Thank you.”

“You gorgeous, gorgeous man,” Chris says. “Now, why don’t you go give your husband a kiss, then join me on the bed?”

Yuuri complies, breaking away from Chris and coming over to Victor again, hands on the armrests, bending over, just like before. He smells faintly of sweat, of the club they left behind, of Chris. His hair is sticking out at all angles, and his chest is rising and falling rapidly, and his pupils are huge, and it adds up to something all the sexier for the fact that Victor had nearly no part in making him look this way.

“Are you still okay?” Yuuri asks. There’s glitter on him. On his cheeks and on his neck, from where Chris was kissing him.

Victor nods. “You’re so… this is…”

Yuuri’s index finger finds his chin. “Green?”

Victor nods again—and when Yuuri kisses him, he can’t help but surge up into it, hands clutching at Yuuri’s shoulders, at his neck.

Yuuri steps back, though, a teasing light in his eyes.

“Not yet, love. Not yet.”

-

Chris Giacometti was nearly eighteen. Victor himself, nearly twenty. They’d only ever shared the ice once, and it was earlier that day, and so when Chris approached Victor in the hotel lobby that evening, Victor assumed it would be to shake hands, maybe take a selfie together, maybe exchange small talk.

But there was no small talk. Not even a congratulations. Chris simply took Victor aside and said, voice low enough not to be overheard, “I’ve spent all day wondering if you’re as gorgeous naked as you are with your clothes on.”

It took a lot to surprise Victor back then; it still does. But this—this blunt forthrightness, accompanied by Chris’s direct, guileless smile—this was new. Victor actually had to take a moment to compose himself before replying.

A moment to think, too. It wasn’t as though he was a blushing virgin, or really a virgin of any sort, but he did try to keep his sex life, such as it was, out of the public eye. He was discreet. Chris, by contrast, was… not.

And yet.

Victor took in Chris’s brilliant green eyes, his hair, recently restyled and dyed to emphasize his undercut, and his impressively muscular body. He’d skated well earlier, earning a bronze to Victor’s gold. And, simply but importantly, Chris was a genuinely nice person. Victor liked genuinely nice people.

Cocking his head inquisitively to the side, Victor tossed his hair over his shoulder and replied:

“I am.”

Chris’s green eyes danced, his grin broadening. “Good to know. Can I tell you what else I was wondering?”

Victor raised his eyebrows.

“I was wondering,” Chris said, “what you sound like when you come. And I was hoping you’d let me find out.”

Blunt. Forthright. Lewd. Victor had never thought of himself as a person who considered these things attractive—but right then, with Chris reaching up to twist a lock of Victor’s hair between his fingers, he changed his mind.

“Room 509,” Victor said. “Give me half an hour.”

And half an hour later, to the second, there was Chris, knocking on his door.

“Will you let me kiss you?” he asked, without preamble, and Victor nodded, and that was the beginning.

 _Will you let me?_ Chris asked over and over again. _Will you let me touch that lovely cock of yours? Will you let me taste your nipples? Will you let me finger you?_ As though each permission Victor granted was a gift. As though Victor were the most precious thing in the universe.

When Chris’s voice started to go shaky, Victor got to his knees and used his mouth to bring Chris to orgasm—because it was what Chris asked for, and because, by this point, Victor was too dazed, too pleasure-addled, to do anything more creative than that.

When Victor came, it was on his back, with Chris using his mouth and hands together—and afterwards, Chris held him as he came back to himself, murmuring, _Beautiful. Beautiful. You’re so beautiful._

Victor knew he was attractive. He’d grown up with his coach and his manager and every journalist in the world telling him so. But this was different, somehow. Lying here with Chris beside him, idly combing Victor’s hair with his fingers, Victor felt himself attractive in a way that was private. Secret. New.

Like this: Chris asking, strangely shy all of a sudden, if he could braid Victor’s hair.

And like this: Victor kissing Chris’s face, every inch of it that he could reach, and saying yes, of course, yes.

-

The position that Chris chooses is one that Victor hasn’t tried with Yuuri in a very long time. Chris is up against the headboard, with legs spread wide and pillows behind his back. Yuuri is between his legs, his back against Chris’s chest. And Chris is running his hands up and down Yuuri’s abdomen, murmuring into Yuuri’s ear all the while. Victor catches _soft skin_ and _are you cold_ and a few other things, but he doesn’t ask Chris to speak up. He doesn’t have to, because he can see the result of his words in the pink spreading across Yuuri’s face, down his chest, warming him.

Yuuri is noticeably hard by now, but Chris hasn’t yet removed his briefs. Victor wonders if Yuuri is feeling impatient. He certainly would be, in Yuuri’s place.

Chris takes one of Yuuri’s nipples between his thumb and forefinger, earning an arch of Yuuri’s back and a squeak of approval.

“Sensitive,” Chris observes, and looks up at Victor. “He’s very sensitive here, isn’t he?”

Victor smiles—and Chris grasps the other one too. Yuuri tenses, screws his eyes shut, and actually _kicks_ , though his foot meets nothing but air. Chris must be holding him very, very tightly.

“Too much?” Chris asks Yuuri. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

“No,” Yuuri says, panting. “I just… have to…”

“Get used to it?” Chris suggests.

Yuuri nods.

“We can do that,” Chris says. “But, hey. Here. Let’s show Victor how you feel about this. I don’t think he’s close enough to see.” He shoots Victor another quick look, then asks Yuuri, “Will you take your underwear off for me?”

Victor’s mouth is dry. He should get a glass of water. But that would mean getting up. And he can’t get up. He can’t. Not just because he would miss whatever happens next, but because he’s pretty certain that his body is incapable of movement.

With Chris still grasping tightly at both his nipples, Yuuri reaches down and hooks his thumbs into his waistband. Lifts his hips so he can shimmy his briefs down to his thighs. Then, in a move that only a trained dancer could possibly pull off, he lifts both his legs so his body is nearly folded in half—all the easier to slide the fabric off himself completely.

Then he settles back down onto the bed, still flush against Chris, still being held in place by his nipples. His cock bobs against his stomach, darkened and fat—and he catches Victor’s eye. And smiles.

“Gorgeous,” Victor can’t help saying.

“He’s not wrong,” Chris tells Yuuri. “It’s a good thing Victor knows what a lucky man he is, or else I’d be tempted to steal you for myself.” He leans down, mouth next to Yuuri’s ear. “I’m still tempted.”

“Ha,” says Yuuri, and then moans, arching again. Victor can see movement in Chris’s hands; he’s squeezing Yuuri’s nipples, or rolling them, maybe. Either way, the effect is absolutely stunning: Yuuri’s cock jerking up, a bead of wet falling onto his stomach as he writhes under Chris’s touch.

“Delicious,” Chris says, fingers still moving. “Look at you, you pretty little thing. God.”

Chris doesn’t let go of Yuuri’s nipples for a good long while—long enough that Victor’s own chest aches with sympathy. But Yuuri is utterly lost in it. His eyes keep fluttering closed, and eventually they stay that way. His initial reactions, jerky and surprised, give way to low hums of pleasure and long, slow breaths. He becomes boneless in Chris’s arms, with Chris himself murmuring words of praise the entire time.

Finally, Chris says, “I’m going to move you. Don’t open your eyes.”

Yuuri doesn’t—but he does give a little hiss when Chris finally lets go of his poor nipples, which are darkened, likely bruised, from all the abuse. Victor’s legs tense with the instinct to run to Yuuri and soothe his skin with kisses. But he isn’t supposed to move, so he doesn’t.

Chris slides expertly out from under Yuuri and eases him down onto a pillow. With one hand resting almost protectively on Yuuri’s stomach, Chris turns to Victor. His nipple rings glint in the lamplight, and he’s just as hard as Yuuri is—and somewhere in there, probably in the process of shifting positions, his cock sprang free of the thong, leaving the thin scrap of material twisted and useless.

“Look what this boy of yours does to me,” Chris says, with a mockery of a pout. “Sexy asshole.”

And then, before either of them can reply, Chris bends down and tends to Yuuri’s chest, just as Victor would have done. It’s strangely hard to watch: the same movements coming from a different mouth, eliciting the same little noises from Yuuri. Victor’s been replaced tonight. But that’s what he wanted, isn’t it?

Victor draws one leg up, tucking it under his knee. He bites his lip and doesn’t speak. Doesn’t interfere, no matter how much his chest aches and no matter how empty his hands feel.

Kneeling beside Yuuri on the bed, Chris moves his mouth further and further down. _Will you let me kiss your belly? Will you let me kiss your hips? Your thighs?_

“You don’t have to ask every time,” Yuuri says, eyes opening for the first time in what feels like forever.

Chris looks up from where he’s tending to Yuuri’s left thigh. “Asking means I get to hear you say yes, though. I like hearing people say yes.”

Yuuri considers this, a soft smile spreading across his reddened face. “You get off on consent?”

Chris laughs. “I never thought of it like that… but yeah, I guess I do.”

Yuuri reaches up, then, two fingers brushing down Chris’s jawline: a touch so familiar that Victor’s face feels naked at its absence.

“Then keep asking,” Yuuri says.

Chris grabs his hand and presses a kiss to Yuuri’s palm—and in that moment, that exchange of gestures, Victor senses a bridge being built. Yuuri and Chris. They’re in this together, now. It’s not just a whim of Victor’s anymore; it’s _them_. Without him.

 _This is what you wanted_ , he reminds himself, and digs his fingernails into his thighs.

“Will you let me kiss your knees?” Chris asks, and Yuuri says yes. Calves are next. Ankles. Then: “Will you let me kiss your feet?”

A whimper escapes into the room. It takes Victor longer than it should to realize that it came from his own lips. That he’s sitting there like an idiot, hunched over, one hand on his mouth, chest heaving as his heart pounds out of control.

_This is what you wanted._

“You okay?” Chris asks.

No. He isn’t. The word _red_ nearly falls out of his mouth then—red, for stop—but he doesn’t want it to stop. He just wants—he wants—

“Yellow,” he manages to say. Yellow, to slow down.

Yuuri stretches out a hand to him, and Victor doesn’t need any more prompting than that. He’s out of his chair and at Yuuri’s side, hands braced on the bed as he bends down to claim a kiss, fast and sweet, from Yuuri’s lips.

“My feet?” Yuuri asks. “Or something else?”

“No, that was it,” Victor says, breathless. “I… I don’t want to share them.”

He isn’t sure why. Taking care of Yuuri’s feet has long been a kink of his, of course, but so have a million other things. So there’s no real reason for him to feel so possessive over that, of all things. Over something so trivial.

But all Yuuri says is, “That’s fine. That can be for us alone. All right, Chris?”

“No foot stuff, no problem,” Chris says, and when Victor looks down the bed at him, he’s grinning, like this is a conversation about what to have for dinner. “Is there anything else?”

Victor, breathing a little easier now, says, “I didn’t even know there was _that_ until…”

Chris nods. “Fair enough. But let me know, will you?”

“I will,” Victor promises.

Yuuri finds one of his hands. Forces his own underneath it, making Victor adjust his weight. Threads their fingers together. “Stay next to me?” he suggests, and he’s pink-faced and naked and _relaxed_ and…

And Victor can feel the fantasy shifting in his mind. He doesn’t just want to observe anymore. He doesn’t want to participate either—this is _Chris_ , it would be _weird_ —but he wants to be close enough to touch Yuuri’s skin. To feel Yuuri’s reactions, even just a little bit.

He climbs up onto the bed and arranges himself at Yuuri’s shoulder, Yuuri’s hand clasped firmly in both of his own. “Like this?” he asks, bringing Yuuri’s fingertips to his mouth for a tiny kiss.

“Perfect,” Yuuri replies.

“Perfect,” Chris adds, from his perch at Yuuri’s knees. “Green?”

“Green,” Victor says. Yuuri, too, echoes the word. Green, for go.

Chris’s gaze moves back to Yuuri’s face, then trails, hot and lascivious, down his chest, then further. His body language shifts: from attentive friend to eager lover. His hand comes to rest on Yuuri’s belly, just above his cock. Yuuri breathes into the pressure, his eyes fluttering closed, and this time, oh, Victor can see him reacting. The tiny hitches in his breath, the shivers along his skin, as he lets himself relax into Chris’s touch.

“Gorgeous,” Chris says, brushing his thumb back and forth, eliciting more little shivers. “And so responsive. I had no idea you were so responsive.”

Yuuri smiles, blushing and shy in a way that he hardly ever is anymore. Victor squeezes Yuuri’s hand; Yuuri squeezes back. 

Chris spares a quick glance for Victor before splaying his fingers wider and asking, his voice low and rumbling: “Yuuri, will you let me taste your cock?”

-

Yuuri knows, by now, the full story of The Banquet Avec Pole Dancing and how it was actually the first in a sequence of events that completely upended Victor’s life. Chris, though, was the one who witnessed the moment it actually hit home.

After the party faded and Yuuri faded with it, after Victor and Chris saw Yuuri safely to his room, after Chris took off Yuuri’s shoes and Victor made sure that his glasses were safe and that he had water within reach—after all that, Victor ended up back in Chris’s. Victor kissed Chris and thought of Yuuri. He pulled Chris’s shirt off and thought of Yuuri. He undid Chris’s belt buckle and thought of Yuuri.

And then, without warning, as Chris knelt and began kissing a line down the center of Victor’s stomach, Victor burst into tears.

“Whoa, wait,” Chris said, standing up again, taking hold of Victor’s shoulders. “Hey. Hey. Just how drunk _are_ you?”

Victor shook his head, feeling completely idiotic. “Five glasses. Six, maybe? I’m not—it’s not that.”

Chris rolled his eyes. “Sure it’s not. And I definitely saw you having more than six, you liar.”

Victor honestly couldn’t remember how many he’d had. But that wasn’t the point. The alcohol wasn’t the _point_ , especially when he hadn’t had nearly as much as—

He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“Okay, fine,” Chris said. “Never mind that part. Just tell me what’s going on, yeah?”

“It’s…”

Over the years, his time with Chris had become special. Sacred, even. A tiny oasis of intimacy in the middle of days, weeks, months, of training and performances and interviews and photo shoots. He was used to knocking on Chris’s door and letting things happen slowly, his heart unfurling under Chris’s fingers as he rediscovered, if only for a short time, his own capacity for feeling.

That night, though, he was already feeling _so much_ that, by the time Chris began touching him, it felt like an electric shock. Too much, too fast. And that, right there, was something he could actually say out loud.

“Too much. Too fast.”

Chris looked confused, but still said, “All right. We’ll slow down. No problem.”

That was about when Victor realized he didn’t want to have sex that night. Not with Chris. Not with Yuuri either. Not with anyone.

“Sorry,” he told Chris, backing away. “I should just go.”

“Ohhh, no, you don’t,” Chris said.

Victor laughed. “Come on. You’re clearly in the mood for something, and I’m not, and there’s time to find someone else if you want. I don’t want to get in the way—”

“Playing the martyr doesn’t suit you, so stop,” Chris said curtly. “And yeah, getting laid would be nice, but you’re my _friend_ , and you are not leaving this room until I know you’re okay. Now sit down.”

Victor sat down. Chris went to the bathroom and came back with a glass full of water, which he handed to Victor. Just like Victor had done for Yuuri, one floor up and a few doors down.

Yuuri.

Without warning, he was crying again.

“Victor,” Chris said. “Vitya. Talk to me.”

“Yuuri Katsuki,” Victor said. “He… no, wait, the Japanese name thing. Katsuki Yuuri.”

“Now _there’s_ a guy who can hold his liquor,” Chris said, rolling his eyes. Then: “Good pole work, though.” Then, a pause. Then: “Wait. Oh, lord, you’re not—”

“No,” Victor said, because that was definitely the answer to any question Chris might have been about to ask. “He just… we… I had _fun_ , and I don’t, I don’t usually, I felt _happy_ , and I—”

But he didn’t say anything else; the ferocity of his tears wouldn’t let him.

When he finally calmed down a little, he opened his eyes again and there was Chris, kneeling at his feet, patiently waiting. And offering tissues, which Victor took with a laugh.

Once Victor had cleaned up a little—and had held a warm, wet towel under his eyes to prevent future puffiness—Chris undressed him and bundled him into bed, cocooning Victor with his own body.

“Whatever it is, Vitya,” Chris whispered in his ear, “you’re going to be okay. Promise.”

Victor just closed his eyes and let himself be held. He fell asleep trying not to think about Katsuki Yuuri, wild and flirtatious and free.

-

The word _beautiful_ starts to lose meaning for the sheer number of times Chris says it. Yuuri doesn’t seem to tire of hearing it, though. He even starts to lapse into that habit he used to have back when he and Victor first started sleeping together: saying _No, stop, I’m not, I’m really not,_ in a way that clearly means _I’m starved for this, tell me again, again, again._

But Chris just keeps saying _beautiful_ , over and over—whenever his tongue is free, that is. Chris is buried between Yuuri’s legs, and has been for what seems like forever. After a few kisses gifted to Yuuri’s cock, Chris almost immediately aimed lower, asking very explicit permission for every new part of Yuuri that he wanted to taste.

 _Yes_ fell from Yuuri’s mouth, gasping and breathy. _Yes, yes, god, yes._

From his perch at Yuuri’s shoulder, Victor can’t see all the details of what Chris is doing, but he can see every reaction. Every arch of Yuuri’s back, every tightening of his throat, every parting and pressing together of his lips. Beads of sweat gather at Yuuri’s hairline, and Victor can’t help himself: he bends to kiss them away, then smooths Yuuri’s hair back.

“Green,” Yuuri whispers, then.

So Victor stays there. One hand tangled in Yuuri’s fingers, the other in Yuuri’s hair.

Which means he feels Yuuri’s reaction twice over when Chris lifts his head and licks a long stripe up the underside of Yuuri’s cock. Yuuri’s eyes are closed, his head pressed back into the pillow, his throat a gleaming expanse of golden skin.

“Oh,” he pants. “Okay, yeah. Okay.”

Victor pets his hair, and is silent. His Yuuri is so exquisite like this, laid bare, glistening with sweat, chest heaving. And one glance at Chris, with his tongue working and his eyes fixed firmly on Yuuri’s face, tells Victor that he agrees completely.

“Beautiful,” he whispers to Yuuri, before letting his tongue flick out again, and—

—and, and, Victor _remembers_ this. Chris. Like this. Tongue and lips, softly licking, softly teasing the head of Victor’s cock, so many years ago. The light brush of teeth over sensitive flesh, just to gauge his reaction.

Victor’s reaction, usually, had been quite positive. Teeth. He liked teeth. He always hurt the day after; it was always worth it.

Yuuri’s reaction, now, is to gasp and say, “Yellow. Yellow.”

“No teeth?” Chris asks.

“Mmhmm,” Yuuri replies. “All the rest, though. S’good. All the… ohhhh…”

And then he trails off into incoherence again.

Chris, for as long as Victor has known him, has always started blowjobs the same way: holding the shaft steady with one hand, lavishing all his attention on the head. He varied it from there, depending on Victor’s responses—some days nipping his way down the length of him, some days swallowing him whole with barely any buildup. Victor’s chest clenches at the intensity of the memory.

His cock pulses with it, too, but he doesn’t touch himself. He doesn’t. This isn’t for him. This is for Yuuri.

Yuuri, who’s squirming and bucking now, because Chris has just made a discovery. Chris has discovered, just now, that if he fits his tongue into the tight space between Yuuri’s foreskin and the head of his cock, the noises that Yuuri makes are absolutely sublime. Soft, keening noises, punctuated by cries that are nearly sobs. This thing that Chris is doing now—this is one of Victor’s favorite shortcuts when he needs to bring Yuuri to a quick release.

“My gorgeous Yuuri,” he says, since Chris’s mouth is otherwise occupied. “Yes. Yes. Just like that.”

Though his tongue is still swirling, swirling, Chris’s eyes meet Victor’s—and they’re absolutely shining.

“Please,” Yuuri says. “Please, please.”

“You want Chris to make you come, love?” Victor asks, curling his fingers a little, letting his nails scrape against Yuuri’s scalp.

Yuuri shudders. Opens his eyes. “Not yet, not… wait, wait. Chris. Wait.”

Chris stills, then slowly pulls off as Yuuri readjusts his body, propping himself up on his elbows. His cock glistens with spit and precome, and his whole body is flushed.

“How much…” Yuuri pauses, swallowing, catching his breath. “How much of me can you take?”

A slow grin spreads across Chris’s face. “How much do you want to give me?”

Victor doesn’t just _see_ the change in Yuuri’s body; he can practically feel it, too. A subtle shift of his shoulders, a new attentiveness in the way he holds his head. Victor’s heart flutters. He knows what’s going to happen.

Sure enough, Yuuri slides down the bed, forcing Chris to scramble out of his way. He positions himself just so: ass perched on the edge of the mattress, knees spread wide apart. Victor slides off the bed, too, and circles around, hovering just beside where Chris is now standing. He waits.

Yuuri’s eyes are dark as he looks up at Chris. “Come here,” he says, and Chris does. Yuuri’s hand reaches, and his index finger hooks under one of the bright-red strings of Chris’s thong. Pulls it away from his body. Then lets go, snapping it back against the skin of Chris’s hip.

Chris sucks in a breath, which becomes a whimper when Yuuri’s hand continues on its idle quest, brushing over Chris’s erect cock, his belly, and his chest, before pulling away.

“Kneel,” Yuuri tells him.

“Ooh,” Chris says, and kneels.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Yuuri replies. Then, a shade more seriously, “Green?”

“Green, green, green,” Chris says.

Quietly, Victor kneels too: a pale echo of Chris, the third point of their triangle. He wants to see both their faces. He needs to.

“Good,” says Yuuri, and puts both of his hands in Chris’s hair, grasping, eliciting another whimper. “Now ask me.”

“Ask you what?” Chris teases, and Victor holds his breath.

Yuuri bends low, his face inches away from Chris’s. “Ask for permission to suck me.”

Chris leans in. “Katsuki Yuuri. Will you do me the honor of letting me stuff your cock down my throat, and letting me keep it there until you come?”

Yuuri grins. And when he says yes, he looks straight at Victor. Their gazes lock as Yuuri takes hold of Chris’s head, as he guides Chris’s mouth down atop himself, as he starts moving his hips, thrusting faster, faster, as he shoves himself deeper and deeper into Chris’s eager throat, pressing Chris’s forehead against his belly.

Victor begins to worry, for the first time in his life, if he’s capable of coming without being touched at all.

Soon, Victor can see the tension building inside Yuuri’s body. The curling of his toes, the twitching of the muscles in his thighs, the way his nose starts to crinkle up. Perhaps wanting to be polite, he starts to pull himself out of Chris’s mouth—but he only gets most of the way out before Chris takes a firm hold of his hips, anchoring him there.

Yuuri’s quiet when he comes. He always has been. Not like Chris, who shouts; not like Victor, who moans. It’s a side effect of having grown up surrounded by so many people, maybe, or else it’s simply a side effect of being Yuuri.

Chris begins to slow after a moment, and then lifts his head and looks over his shoulder at Victor, and—Oh. His cheeks are puffed out. He hasn’t swallowed. Victor wonders at that, but then Chris gestures, first to Victor’s mouth, then his own. Victor’s stomach swoops at the idea of it. He can’t possibly say no.

He knees over to where Chris is, leaning in, and Chris leans too, and their mouths meet in a wet, filthy kiss. Yuuri’s come slips into Victor’s mouth, thick and familiar, and Chris helps it along with a push of his tongue. A few drops escape, sliding down Victor’s chin, landing on his shirt and on Yuuri’s left foot—and Victor knows the exact moment Yuuri opens his eyes, because when he does, he murmurs, “Holy _shit_.”

Victor swallows his share, and Chris does the same. Yuuri is staring down at them, eyes wide, hand over his mouth, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“He’s delicious, isn’t he?” Victor says.

Chris’s smile grows mischievous. “ _Vkusno_ ,” he says.

Victor says something in return—or, at least, he tries to. But it’s lost in the sudden sound of Yuuri absolutely breaking apart with laughter.

-

It was Amsterdam, maybe. Or Oslo. Copenhagen? It doesn’t really matter. What matters is that Victor had a hotel room, and Chris was inside it, and Victor was inside Chris, and Chris was screaming.

Chris had been screaming for a while, now.

Victor was terribly proud, of course. He’d worked hard to bring Chris to this point, and it was paying off in spades: spurts of white landing along Chris’s belly as Victor jerked him; Chris’s ass clenching tight around Victor, bringing him closer and closer to his own release; Victor’s name on Chris’s tongue, loud enough that it could probably be heard clear across the Atlantic.

Loud enough, too, that there soon came a knock on the hotel door.

“Shit, shit,” Victor muttered as he pulled out, still unsatisfied. Chris was in no shape to move, so Victor wrapped a robe around himself and ran, slightly bow-legged, for the door.

“Hello!” he chirped at the woman he found on the other side.

She explained, just as he’d expected, that they’d had complaints from the room next door. “Noise complaints,” she added, with a raised eyebrow and a pointed look over Victor’s shoulder. Presumably at Chris, naked and sprawled across the sheets. Her lips quirked into a smile, though she tried not to let them.

“I’m so sorry,” Victor said. “We’ll be quieter. We’re nearly done anyway…”

This time, her smile came too fast for her to stop it. So she just rolled her eyes and walked away, muttering, somewhat sardonically, “Ahh, young love.”

Chris was already laughing by the time Victor shut the door. “Young love!” he said dramatically, pulling Victor back into bed.

“Ow,” Victor replied, as his too-hard cock bumped against Chris’s thigh.

“Poor baby,” Chris said, when he saw what the problem was. “Shall I kiss it better? Here, go wash yourself off, and I’ll suck you.”

So Victor did. And Chris did. And despite feeling somewhat contrary toward whichever of their neighbors had complained, Victor really did make an effort to keep the noise to a minimum when he finally exploded in Chris’s mouth.

“Young love,” Chris said again afterwards, holding his arms open for Victor, who settled comfortably into them, nose pressed against Chris’s neck. There was a pause. And the smell of sex lingering in the air, and Chris’s hand stroking Victor’s hair, and quiet. Then: “You ever been in love, Vitya?”

“No way,” Victor replied.

“Yeah,” Chris agreed. “Yeah, same here.”

“Love,” Victor said, feeling very wise, “is for people with too much time on their hands.”

“Yeah,” Chris said again. There was a pause before he added: “I don’t know, though. I think it might be kind of nice.”

-

For a moment, Victor thinks this is it. This is the end of it. Chris saying _vkusno_ —and trying for a Russian accent, no less—and Yuuri cracking up. The scene is over. And it was good, it was more than good, but… but?

But the good part, the _best_ part, was the look of amazement on Chris’s face when Yuuri took charge. And the view, the brand new view, that Victor had when Yuuri came. And the brief kiss he shared with Chris, the taste of Yuuri and the feel of Chris’s mouth, past and present colliding, and he wants, he wants, he—

_No. That’s not what you wanted. You wanted to watch._

But.

“You,” Yuuri says, pointing at Chris, when his laughter starts to subside. “You have a very talented mouth.”

Chris smirks, not even bothering to wipe the remnants of Yuuri’s come off his chin. “So I’ve been told.”

Then Yuuri continues, still wearing the kindest of smiles: “But—and correct me if I’m wrong—but I think you just made fun of my husband. I didn’t say you could do that.”

Heat coils and furls in Victor’s belly as Chris raises his eyebrows and replies, very seriously, “I’m sorry. I should have asked permission first.”

 _Yes_ , thinks Victor. _This. Good._

Yuuri’s smile grows sharp. “You should have. And here I was, thinking of offering my own mouth in return.”

Chris takes the cue eagerly, still kneeling, hands grasping now at Yuuri’s knees. “Will you let me fuck your mouth, Yuuri? Please?”

Yuuri taps a finger to his mouth—a gesture Victor knows Yuuri picked up from him—and makes a show of considering.

“No,” he says.

“What about _his_ mouth?” Chris asks, shooting a sly glance at Victor, and, _oh_. Victor wants it. What Chris is suggesting. It’s not what they talked about, he and Yuuri. Not what they agreed to. But he _wants_ it.

Yuuri frowns down at Chris. “You really think I’m about to let you use my favorite toy?”

Victor forgets how to breathe.

 _Thing_ , he said before. _The thing that’s waiting for you._ He remembers, now, Yuuri making note of the word choice, but he never thought—he never—they _never_ talk about each other like this.

Victor _likes_ it.

He likes it enough that, when Yuuri glances over at him to gauge his reaction, it’s all he can do not to throw his arms up and scream _yes, yes, yes_ at the ceiling. Instead, he just smiles. Smiles and holds himself so very still.

Chris takes this cue just as easily as he took the last one: “I’ll take good care of it, I promise.”

Yuuri glances at Victor again, a question in his eyes. Yuuri’s asking if he wants to go down this road, and he hadn’t planned to, he really hadn’t, but his whole body is vibrating with desire, and he misses Chris, he _misses_ him. He didn’t mean to. But he does.

He gives Yuuri a single nod.

Yuuri tells Chris, “Then ask.”

Chris turns to Victor, green eyes dancing with anticipation. “Victor, will you let me—”

“Not him,” says Yuuri softly. “Ask _me_.”

Victor’s heart squeezes. Yuuri is perfect. He is perfect.

Chris asks. “Yuuri. Will you let me use your husband’s mouth to make myself come?”

“Yes,” says Yuuri, and slides off the bed. Chris moves to stand up, probably to switch places with him, but Yuuri says, “No. No, stay where you are.” Chris looks surprised, but he stays. Yuuri smiles. “Spread your knees.”

Chris does, which puts his cock on even fuller display. And he watches as Yuuri comes over to Victor, puts a hand on his back, and guides him to where they both, where they _all_ , want him to be.

-

Right from the beginning, Yuuri gravitated toward being a top. Which was just fine with Victor, since he tended to prefer bottoming. Not that they never switched it up, but things felt easiest that way. It was a natural coming-together of who they already were.

The first time they tried a proper scene, though—the kind with rules and ropes and prior negotiations and things—the first time they tried that, Yuuri said _red_ after only ten minutes, bringing the scene to a sudden stop.

“It’s easy to figure out what to do next when it’s just, you know, you and me, together,” he said later, once he’d calmed down. “But when I know I’m _supposed_ to be deciding what comes next, it’s…”

“Too much pressure?” Victor suggested.

“Maybe,” Yuuri said. “And, um, I’d start thinking maybe I was doing it wrong, telling you to do the wrong things, and you were only doing what I said because that’s what we agreed, and you didn’t really like it much, and—”

“I did, though,” Victor said. “I promise, I did. I loved it.”

“I know, I know,” Yuuri said. “But I couldn’t ask, so I spent the whole time second-guessing myself, and it was just. It was _stressful_.”

“Then we don’t have to do it again,” Victor said.

Yuuri looked crestfallen. “But you liked it.”

Victor thought about this. Yuuri was right. But Yuuri was also unhappy. How to find the balance?

“Your orders don’t have to be physical,” Victor said slowly. “If we try this again, you could… maybe order me to tell you what I want. Order me to say things to you. Order me to tell you how I’m feeling about what’s going on. That way you wouldn’t have anything to second-guess.”

Yuuri’s smile bloomed like a sunrise. He was almost shy when he said, “Yeah, maybe. Maybe that’s it.”

So they tried it. It worked. And it worked better the next time, and even better the next. And eventually, Yuuri grew comfortable enough with scene play that he started sneaking physical orders in again, once in a while.

Not always with a straight face, though. Even now, there are certain phrases that he avoids, because he can’t say them without bursting into nervous laughter. 

-

Chris’s position means Victor’s chin is nearly touching the carpet. Which is just fine. Braced on his forearms, he has plenty of support for what he’s doing. And he likes what he’s doing—loves it, even. The taste of Chris’s skin is like visiting an old apartment: familiar, comforting, warm. Chris moves like Victor remembers, even _smells_ like Victor remembers. Muscle memory takes over, and Victor’s tongue goes to work, and he could lose himself in this, he really could, except—

“Slow down, sweetheart,” comes Yuuri’s voice, along with Yuuri’s hand, tugging firmly at his hair, guiding him.

The tugging is how he can tell it’s Yuuri. Well, and the angle. But Chris never tugged. Chris stroked. He fiddled and played. He braided it and combed it and even cut it, once, when Victor asked. But when Yuuri touches his hair during scenes like this, it’s not an indulgence. It’s a command.

So Victor slows down. Turns impatient sucking into long, slow slides of his tongue.

“Eager,” Chris comments. His voice wobbles, but he’s still in control of himself. That’s good. That means Victor gets more of this.

“That he is,” Yuuri says fondly. “But he’s so good at it. And look at him. He’s so pretty like this, isn’t he?”

 _Like this_ meaning on his elbows and knees, still clothed and painfully hard, his ass in the air as he focuses all his attention on giving Chris the blowjob of his life. Well, maybe not _all_ his attention. He’s given a fair bit of it over to reveling in the pressure of Yuuri’s hand on his scalp.

“Very pretty,” Chris agrees. “Although, you know, I may never get used to the short hair.”

“Oh, that’s right!” Yuuri says, like he’s not still stark naked, like Victor’s tongue isn’t currently swirling around the swollen head of Christophe Giacometti’s cock. “That’s right, I always forget. You knew him when it was still long. Did you start sleeping together before he went short?”

“A few y— _ahh!_ —ah—um, yeah. A few years before that.”

Victor feels himself going blurry around the edges. He’s there, but he isn’t. It shouldn’t feel good, he thinks, to be talked about this way. But it does. It does.

“I’m jealous,” Yuuri says with a laugh. “Do you know how many times I’ve thought about that? What it’d be like to have him riding me, with all that gorgeous hair around his shoulders…”

“Like a curtain,” Chris finishes, almost wistfully. “It was even prettier in person, if you can believe that. Although, when he didn’t wash it for a few days? Yikes.”

Victor tries very hard not to laugh around Chris’s cock. It doesn’t entirely work.

“Shh, stop that,” Yuuri says, tightening his grip a little bit. “Concentrate, love. You have a job to do. Don’t mind us.”

Victor shivers and blurs. Yuuri is right. He is not part of this conversation. He is just the toy that Chris is using to bring himself off.

He pulls off for a second, just to stretch his jaw, and gets back to work. Slowly, though. Slowly. Now that he knows what’s going on, he wants to make this last.

“Good,” Chris says, and Victor feels his hand joining Yuuri’s atop his head. “So good.”

“Right, you hold him there,” Yuuri says. “Let me just…”

Yuuri trails his hand down Victor’s neck, down his spine, straight into the space between his sweatpants and his skin. Fingers dip into the cleft of his ass, a warm and bright sensation that makes Victor absolutely melt.

“Good position,” Chris says. “What do you think? Spitroast?”

Victor can’t help it; he groans. The idea of Chris’s cock in his mouth and Yuuri’s in his ass…

“Shh, nobody asked you,” Yuuri says with a laugh. Then, to Chris: “Maybe. Did you and he ever do that?”

“Yeah, a couple times,” Chris says easily. “But it was always someone else in the middle. Some stranger we’d pick up. And Victor always wanted the mouth. _Always_. Greedy.”

Yuuri laughs again. “So this is payback, is what you’re saying.”

“Mmmm,” Victor says, into Chris’s skin. It can be payback, if that’s what they want. It can be punishment, even. It can be anything at all, so long as they keep talking, and, god, _why_ does he want them to keep talking about him like this? This should be embarrassing. Humiliating, even. But it’s not. It’s…

It’s. Comforting?

“Oh,” Chris says, and tenses. “Oh, um—”

“Slow _down_ , love,” says Yuuri. “Here, stop, stop.”

And Yuuri pulls him off Chris’s cock. Victor follows his lead, wobbling and malleable in Yuuri’s arms. Yuuri uses a finger to wipe his mouth, then takes his chin and forces Victor to meet his eyes.

“Green?” he asks.

“Green,” Victor whispers, hoarse.

Yuuri smiles. “Good. You’re so good. Will you do me a favor?” Victor nods. Obviously he will. “Will you show me how you and Chris used to kiss?”

Victor nods again, and Yuuri guides him: away from his own body, into Chris’s lap. Chris takes over from there, holding his sides, and their mouths meet, and it’s so much, it’s _so much_ , so very much, and…

And Victor never fell in love with Chris, not the way he fell in love with Yuuri—but they share a history. They’ve kept secrets for each other. They remember each other’s bodies. That’s what Victor tastes now. Not love, but… but _something_.

The strength of it washes over him like a tidal wave, relentless in its force, sweeping away the version of the fantasy where Victor watches and watches and doesn’t do anything else. His arms, deprived of all but the smallest touch up until now, clutch at Chris’s naked body; his blurred edges find Chris’s blurred edges; then, somehow Chris is stretched out on the carpet and Victor is on top of him, and they’re kissing like their lives depend on it.

Victor feels Chris’s cock against his belly, separated by the thin cotton of his clothes. He adjusts, selfishly, rubbing his own length against Chris’s, crying out into Chris’s mouth, and then—

A hand at his waistband. Easing his pants down, down, over his hips, baring his cock so he’s flesh-to-flesh with Chris. Oh. _Oh_.

“Get onto your side, love,” Yuuri says, using his hands to guide him.

Victor obliges, rolling off Chris and onto his side, and Chris mirrors the movement, and they’re facing each other. Chris’s eyes are wide open, and he’s not joking anymore. Not smiling. He reaches out to touch Victor’s shoulder.

“Vitya,” he says. And then they’re kissing again, a tangle of passion unleashed on the hotel carpet.

A hand, Chris’s hand this time, finds Victor’s cock—and Victor nearly screams at the touch, at the pressure, after all this time holding himself back.

Then, Yuuri’s voice: “Let me.”

Then, Yuuri’s hand, replacing Chris’s. It wraps around them both, stroking them together as they kiss and kiss and kiss.

Chris bites Victor’s lip when he comes. Victor tucks his head into Chris’s shoulder when it’s his turn, and it’s one of his favorite places to be.

-

“Tell me about Chris,” Yuuri said, one day, out of the blue. Victor can’t remember the context of it; maybe they were at the rink, maybe they were making dinner, maybe they were in front of the television. It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that Victor knew exactly what Yuuri was talking about.

“What do you want to know?” he asked. “We’re friends. We used to fuck once in a while. That’s all.”

“Yeah,” Yuuri said. “That’s what you keep saying. But the way you talk about him sometimes, it’s… did you love him? I’m just curious.”

“No way,” Victor replied with a laugh. Because that’s what he and Chris always did when either of them brought up the idea of love. They laughed. They said _no way_. It never really felt like lying.

That day, though, as he said it again and Yuuri listened with those too-keen eyes of his, it felt… well, it still didn’t feel like a lie. But it didn’t feel entirely true, either.

“If you say so,” said Yuuri, and let Victor change the subject.

-

Yuuri picks them up off the floor, eventually. He settles Victor onto the bed, kisses him soundly, and says, “You were wonderful.”

Then he brings Chris to his feet. Victor watches as Yuuri takes Chris’s face in his hands, looks him in the eye, and says, “Thank you.” There’s depth to those words, but Victor is still too lost, too blurry, to wonder much about it.

Chris shrugs it off with what’s probably a joke, and Yuuri banishes him to the bathroom. There are instructions involved. Victor doesn’t really hear them.

Once Chris is gone, Yuuri comes to bed and curls Victor into his arms. Victor goes willingly, pressing his face into Yuuri’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly.

“For what?” Yuuri replies.

“I… we should have talked first. Before.” Before what, though? There wasn’t any time to talk. There was just doing, and being, and feeling. And, before all that, the club. Victor rearranges his thoughts and says, “I didn’t know I wanted… all that.”

“All what?”

“Me and Chris. It’s… it’s not what we talked about.”

Yuuri laughs, not unkindly. “Maybe it’s not what _you_ talked about.”

“What?”

Behind the closed door of the bathroom, the shower turns on.

“Victor,” Yuuri says, hugging him close. “You told me, outside the club, that you wanted to watch me invite Chris into my bed and let him worship me, and then you wanted me to come back to you.”

Victor nods against Yuuri’s shoulder. Yes. That’s exactly what he said. Exactly what he wanted. He should have made himself keep wanting that. Only that. It was so simple. So easy.

“But do you know what I heard?” Yuuri continues. “I heard you say: ‘I miss Chris, and watching him kiss you tonight reminded me of that. I want to go to bed with both of you, but I’m afraid you’ll hate me for wanting someone else, so I’ll tell you the version that leaves me off to the side, just watching.’” He holds Victor tightly. “Did I get it right?”

No. No, it wasn’t anything like that. There was a logical thought process, earlier tonight—a piecing together of things that made Victor happy, all joining to create the fantasy he’d expressed to Yuuri. Seeing Yuuri and Chris. Ending the night in Yuuri’s arms. He did want those things. He really did.

But he thinks of how comfortable he felt, being put to work on Chris’s cock while Chris and Yuuri talked about him, over his head. How good it was to hold Chris as he came. How much he _wanted_ it, in the moment it was happening, and—and maybe Yuuri’s right. Maybe he wanted it long before that, too. Maybe he’s a little bit of an idiot for not realizing it sooner.

Or maybe that just means that Yuuri is very, very perceptive.

Victor pulls out of the embrace and sits up on the bed, cross-legged—which gives him the perfect view of Yuuri, still stretched out, still naked.

“You knew,” Victor says softly. “I didn’t even know, and you did, and you still…”

“Still gave you what you wanted?” Yuuri smiles. “Of course I did. That’s what we do, you and I.”

Victor nods. Yes. That’s what they do.

“Also,” Yuuri says, looking up at him through those sinfully long lashes of his, “I told Chris he could stay here tonight. I hope that’s okay.”

“It’s… I mean… yes? But why?”

Yuuri smiles. “Because I suspect the three of us will have a lot to talk about in the morning. And it’ll be easier to do if we’re all in the same place. We can go out for breakfast. His flight isn’t until three.”

“Talking,” Victor says. “Yes. Talking is probably… yes. Feelings and… and things.”

“And logistics,” Yuuri adds.

“Logistics?” Victor echoes.

“Unless you _don’t_ want to figure out when and where we can ask Chris to join us again,” Yuuri says, grinning.

Victor stares. “You want…? Really? But…”

“I had a good time tonight,” Yuuri says simply. “He’s a good person, and a good friend, and—and, god, the things he can do with his _tongue_.”

“Yeah,” Victor says, remembering. “Ohhh, yeah.”

“Plus,” Yuuri continues, “I like seeing you happy. And you’re happy when you feel known. And, well. Chris knows you.”

“ _You_ know me,” Victor says weakly.

“We can both,” Yuuri says. “There can be more than one.”

Something comes loose in Victor’s chest. He’s on the verge of tears, maybe, or on the verge of laughter. One of those. He bends down, pressing a hand to Yuuri’s cheek. “I don’t love him the way I love you. I don’t love _anyone_ the way I love you. I never will.”

“I know, Vitya, I know.” Yuuri kisses Victor’s palm. “But you can love him differently, if you want to.”

“Yuuriiii,” Victor says, throwing himself into his husband’s arms again. They collapse into a tangle of limbs and kisses and laughter.

The shower turns off, and out comes Chris, who hasn’t even bothered to wrap a towel around his waist. Which is fair. There’s not much point, now.

“All yours, lovebirds,” he says.

Victor gets up and offers Yuuri his hand. “Shower with me?”

Yuuri takes it, beaming as he climbs out of bed. “I’ll let you wash my feet.”

Chris just laughs.

-

There is a lot to talk about. Yuuri’s right. Victor has a jumble of thoughts and feelings and boundaries and questions in his head, and he suspects Yuuri has a full _list_ of the same—but that’s all for tomorrow.

For tonight, though—for tonight, there is Chris, creeping tentatively toward the second bed. There is Victor, inviting him to join them instead, because there is more than enough room. There is Yuuri, telling Chris to sleep on Victor’s other side so they can keep him warm together.

There’s Chris and Yuuri, sharing a quick kiss over Victor’s head.

There’s Yuuri, wrapping himself around Victor and saying, “You can tell him if you want, Chris. What you told me in the taxi. I promise it’s all right.”

There’s Chris, clutching Yuuri’s hand as he says, quietly, “Vitya, will you let me tell you that I love you?”

There’s Victor, with Yuuri’s lips soft on the back of his neck as he replies, “Yes.”


End file.
